


Old Friend

by Bearslayer



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Actual physical hurt/comfort, Angst, Blood, Eventual happiness for these idiots most likely, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making a hobby out of introspection, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, a lot of deep thinking, most likely medical inaccuracies but I tried, near-death, near-drowning, unbeta'd because I can't be bothered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-09 01:46:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10400961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearslayer/pseuds/Bearslayer
Summary: From the bottom of the river to the spare room of a sad bachelor apartment, Oswald finds himself in the care of the one man he never expected to be his salvation.





	1. The River

**Author's Note:**

> This one's dedicated to oswaldkapellput on tumblr, for keeping the dream of Gobblepot alive for me.
> 
> I have a fair amount of this written already but it's not complete yet. I figure it'll likely have 6-8 chapters of varying length, so bear with me and bookmark if you like.
> 
> If you enjoy this, feel free to bookmark or follow me on tumblr at wittygaypuns, and on my writing blog at mindlessgothamite. If only to yell at me to update. :D

Frigid water crashed into his lungs, bridging the gap between the peaks of shredded flesh formed by a close range bullet to the gut. He hoped that drowning would come easily when the will to live faded. Oswald was dead before Edward pulled the trigger, heart torn to bits by his insistence that he did not, and would never love Oswald. Pain was something he regarded as an old friend, something he thought he knew as intimately as a long time lover, but this was a form that he had never endured. It was a thousand daggers in the back that caused a slow, steady bleed. It was frozen fingers wrapped around the inner workings of his heart, twisting ever tighter. It was a vile and acrid pain, choking him more profoundly than the polluted river water that flooded past his parted lips.

Instinct forced a hand to the wound, pressing into it while the other dug into the rivers algae-slick bottom. Fingers clenching for purchase, Oswald's heart pumped ever faster as he pulled his dying body towards the shoreline. His mind raced as his body panicked, vision clouding as the primal need to survive pushed him slowly towards the waters edge.

What was he doing?

Why struggle to live when death seemed so inviting, so _comforting_?

There was no sin in giving up. He might even see his parents again, if whatever deity that existed could find it in themselves to overlook his extensive crimes. They had loved him without question, without pretext or ulterior motive. Maybe, in the world that wait beyond, they could be the family that Oswald had always dreamt of. Mother, radiant and happy, finally with the only man she had ever truly loved. Father, handsome and elegant, finally with the woman whose picture he had kept in his wallet until his death...

Freezing fingers breached the water's surface. If he could pull his failing body an arm's length more, he could get his head above water. The need to survive had always been paramount to Oswald, but now he fought with himself just as his body fought to stay alive. What reason would he have to live? Revenge? Spite? His own petulant need to show everyone that he was somehow deserving of recognition and praise?

They were all things he had lived for before, all things that had given him nothing but scars and heartache to show for it. Agony gripped his body, hand stretched towards the air above as struggles ceased. His surrender to the cool grip of death was gentle. So many years he had evaded it, offering up the bodies of countless others in his stead... but now, it was a welcome release.

 

//

 

His ears buzzed painfully as his prone body was manipulated. Large hands on his chest jammed down repeatedly, the cracking of ribs as loud as gunshots to his water-logged head. Lips he could not feel were parted, life-restoring breath pushed into him roughly and entirely without his consent. His chest was flattened once again by those hands like a steamroller, causing him to vomit suddenly, putrid water and bile spouting past frozen lips. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but could make out two voices yelling back and forth as he was moved to his side.

Breathing was a chore to Oswald's wrecked lungs, and movement was not an option in such a pitiable state. Something was fitted over his mouth, and his body was lifted.

His eyes opened. The world was bright, too bright, and he found himself shying from the light, face pressed against something... warm? A hand moved to touch the object. Warm and broad; he was being carried by a man. Because sight was not working in his favor, Oswald chose to inhale the scent of the man instead. He had always been perceptive down to the smallest of details. Smell was a sense often overlooked, but had served him well more than once. He knew that Edward favored more perplexing scents, like the mixture of saffron and lemongrass. He knew that Butch preferred typically masculine scents like leather and musk. Gabriel, his secretly sensitive henchman, almost always smelled vaguely of rose and sandalwood.

This smell was something different entirely, but very familiar. The man smelled of wood fires, vanilla, and coffee, of clean laundry and even the slightest hint of whiskey. Oswald's hand curled into the shirt that his nose was pressed against. He knew exactly who this was. It was complex and alluring in a way that had struck him dumb years ago, when they first met. The ache in his heart lessened just a little, strange though it seemed to him at the time.

Or maybe it wasn't so strange.

After all, he always did have a soft spot for Jim Gordon.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald wakes up in an unfamiliar place.

When Oswald woke, the chill that had wracked his body had subsided, replaced by a throbbing pain that grew sharp with each movement. An attempt to open his eyes concluded with a wince as the light of his new lodgings caused his eyes to burn. It was far too bright, but when he opened his mouth to complain nothing escaped save for a sickly sort of noise that bubbled up from his throat. He heard a voice again, unclear for a moment and then becoming clearer through the ringing in his ears.

“... relax, you're still in pretty rough shape.” It was a woman's voice, soft yet firm.

His hands twitched as they tried to move, and panic instantly gripped him. His eyes flung open, and he jerked harder. He was bound, his wrists against the bed. Was he in Arkham again? Letting out a shrill whine, Oswald struggled, visions of the torture at Arkham flashing past his mind's eye. He could not, would not do that again! He would rather die then try to survive that wretched place again. The thought was too much to bear. The wild movements caused torrents of pain to slam into him at once, and he sobbed in terror.

“Oswald, stop it!” Another voice. This one was male, impatient, and indisputably the voice of Jim Gordon. His movements seized at his command, though he could not stop his whimpering.

“Listen – I'm sorry. We had to strap you down. You kept trying to yank out your IV while you slept, kept jerking around hurting yourself more. We'll loosen 'em, but you gotta promise not to try anything stupid, got it?” Jim spoke softly, now, explaining it as slowly as one would to a panicking child. Something about his tone made Oswald feel small and pathetic. He had no recollection of trying to break free or hurt himself. The only think he could recall was the rush of water as he was shoved into the river...

“Wh...” Oswald croaked, his voice still weak. He tried to clear his throat but the action sent a sharp pain through his torso.

“You're probably foggy from the medication, Mayor Cobblepot. Try not to move around too much.” The woman said.

Oswald slowly opened his eyes. He recognized her as Jim's one-time fiancee, Leslie Thompkins. A vaguely bitter voice in his head reminded him that she was once pregnant with Jim's child... Oswald made a small snorting sound as he tried to avoid laughter. He never failed to amuse himself with how petty he could be at the most inappropriate situations. There he was, strapped to a bed in a place he didn't recognize, barely alive, yet he still managed to be just a little irritated that the woman who was helping him was once Jim's lover.

His half-smile faded as he blamed the drugs for the old feelings slowly dredging themselves up from wherever he'd buried them ages ago.

“Where... where am I?” Oswald managed. The room was pitifully non-descript, but in no way appeared to be a hospital room.

“You're somewhere safe.” Jim muttered as he unfastened the straps binding Oswald's wrists to the bed.

“There isn't any need to be vague, old friend. It isn't as if I'm going to make a grand getaway if you tell me where I am.” Oswald muttered, watching him. It hurt to speak, but the mayor couldn't stand not knowing things, especially if they were things as basic as his whereabouts.

“You're in Jim's apartment.” “You're in an apartment, somewhere safe.”

The answers came simultaneously from the pair. The thin-lipped irritation that Oswald had always found endearing immediately presented itself on Jim's face. It was an interesting contrast to the look of amusement on Lee's. Jim glared in her direction, and Lee returned the look with a raised brow of her own.

“What? He's right. He has a right to know where he is. He isn't a prisoner.” Lee snapped, unbothered by Jim's look.

“It does sort of explain why it looks like no one lives here...” Oswald mumbled.

“It's a spare room!” Jim returned, indignant. Oswald barked out a laugh and was rewarded with a new torrent of pain, grimace twisting his facial features.

“You gotta take it easy, Oswald. Your body is a wreck right now.” Jim frowned. The concern came as a sincere surprise to the wounded man. Opening his eyes, he regarded him without a word.

“He's right, Mayor Cobblepot... Please try to relax, don't strain yourself. You're lucky to be alive.” Lee told him.

“Not the word I'd use.” Oswald replied bitterly.

“You are... The temperature of the water constricted the blood vessels in the wound, which kept you from bleeding out completely. The gunshot was pretty clean, too. Missed your spine entirely, no major damage to your internal organs... You nearly drowned, as well. You're a survivor, Mayor.” Lee said, frowning a little at his answer.

A survivor. Oswald wondered if Lee had any inkling of how tiring it was to be a survivor. How crushing to the spirit it was to be constantly brought to death's door only to crawl away just in time to avoid the Reaper's bony fingers. How exhausting it was to be constantly stripped of everything he held dear and forced to claw his way back into the life he desired. He knew little of the woman outside of her relationship to Jim, but he was sure she could not understand his suffering.

“I suppose that's one way to describe me.” Oswald's tone was dry. He wanted little more than to be left alone to focus on the physical pain that kept him centered, to drift into sleep and allow despair to dominate his dreamscape.

“Do you need anything for the pain?” Lee asked.

“No, it isn't too bad,” Oswald lied, letting his eyes slip shut.

“Alright – there will be a nurse around to check up on you when I can't be here. Please don't hesitate to ask for anything.” Lee said.

“Very well. Just... please don't restrain me again. It brings to surface some rather unpleasant memories...” Oswald grumbled sourly, one eye opening to regard Jim critically. He had never quite gotten over being abandoned to Arkham, though the ache of it had dulled over time. If Jim understood the look, his expression gave no indication, remaining passive.

“As long as you don't go yanking at your IV and monitors there won't be a need for it.” Jim muttered, voice rough as he regarded Lee. “I'll take it from here until the nurse comes around.”

Lee glanced at Jim, and then Oswald. A stoic stare followed by a sympathetic smile. Oswald was beginning to like this woman. For all his flaws, the women Jim involved himself with were equal parts beautiful and strong. The poor things.

“Try to get some sleep, Mayor. Jim will be here to take care of you. Won't he?” Lee asked, tone pointed as she looked to her former fiance.

“... Yes. I'll be here.” Jim offered her a strained smile.

The moment she departed, Gordon's face fell stony once again, his attention directed on Oswald. Oswald returned the razor-focused stare. They gazed at one another a little longer than Oswald would have liked. It was vaguely embarrassing, bringing forth memories of the times that he would bend over backwards in an effort to get his attention. Such a fool he had been in those days, struggling to win the affection of a sad man who buried his sorrows in every beautiful woman that gave him the time of day...

Oswald gave a soft, self-deprecating snort, closing his eyes.

“What's funny?” Jim asked.

“I didn't realize it before, but I suppose I have a type.” Oswald remarked.

He could practically hear Jim's brows furrowing in confusion as he began to drift into what would end up being a dreamless sleep.

 


	3. Fading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald wakes the next day to a strange feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood!
> 
> Thank you all for reading <3 I'm glad people seem to be enjoying this. :D

Oswald woke unrestrained but foggy, dragging a hand to his face to rub at it. The world seemed hazy, fuzzy around the edges, and a groan rumbled up from his throat as he recognized the cause. Pain so sharp it knocked his vision askew, thrumming deep in his gut and radiating up to his still recovering lungs. He pushed off the blanket that covered him with shaking hands, wanting to look at the injury that had left him in such a pitiful state.

Blood soaked through the bandages that covered the bullet wound. It was a grizzly sight, only a bit more disconcerting then the fact that he had no recollection of ever being treated for his injuries in the first place. It wasn't the first time someone had patched him up while he was unconscious, after all. The sight of the thick red fluid seeping through the once white bandages became something of an instant fascination to Oswald. It hurt horribly, whatever pain medication he'd been doped up with having long since worn off.

But pain was something he could hold on to. It was something real, something predictable. It was concrete and tangible. Oswald knew how much of it he could take, and he knew how to manage it when it became unbearable. It was edging towards the unbearable side, but he found some perverse comfort in it. It had purpose, it had meaning. Pain didn't lie, didn't betray. It simply was, and in a place like Gotham filled with people like Edward, Barbara, Tabitha, Butch, and all the rest, it was soothing to understand something so deeply.

“Oswald?” Jim's voice snapped him out of his stupor.

“Jim.” Oswald muttered in response, glancing to him only for a moment before his focus veered back to his wound.

“Shit. Shit! That doesn't look good. Holy crap Oswald, I -” Jim babbled in sudden panic upon seeing the blood.

“Calm yourself. It's a bit of blood. Don't be so dramatic.” Oswald mumbled blearily.

“You're telling **me** not to be dramatic? Oswald Cobblepot, who I once witnessed have a man blown up with a rocket launcher, telling me not to be dramatic. Holy crap.” Jim threw his hands into the air, moving towards the bed.

“That was perfectly reasonable. Didn't want Doctor Strange coming around and sewing him back up a second time.” Oswald watched as Jim moved in, reaching bare hands out to carefully peer beneath the soaked bandages.

“Yeah, reasonable I guess – oh god why the hell is it bleeding so bad? I can't tell if you popped a stitch or something...” Jim mumbled.

“ _James_ , please put gloves on if you're going to touch me. I don't know where your hands have been and I'd rather not get some infection because you didn't understand the basic rules of hygiene.” Oswald said, voice deadpan and significantly more calm than Jim. Jim's hands flew back as if burned.

“Shit, you're right, sorry – I don't know what to do, I'm gonna call Lee.” Jim muttered, sprinting awkwardly out of the room.

His behavior was confusing to Oswald, who felt as if he were floating in a pool of thick water, each movement of his eyes causing a wave of unpleasant vertigo. Why was Jim so worried about his well-being? He had made it abundantly clear many times over that he didn't care about Oswald. Maybe it was his current standing as Mayor, and the detective was simply doing his job. The idea only raised more questions, but the thoughts came to him in slow bubbles as his surroundings grew more foggy. He could hear the pumping of his own heart in his ears.

“Strange...” Oswald muttered as he listened to it pounding perhaps a little harder than normal.

“Oswald, look at me.” Jim snapped, bringing a newly gloved hand to Oswald's cheek and holding it.

“Hello.” Oswald half-smiled, directing his eyes to him. Jim's hand on his cheek was so warm against his clammy skin. He was sure he was sweating, though he had begun to feel cold.

“I need you to focus on me, Oswald. You're losing a lot of blood – Lee and a medic are on their way. It'll be five minutes tops, but I need you to stay with me, okay?” Jim muttered with no small amount of urgency to his voice.

Everything felt so bizarre to Oswald. _Why_ was Jim so worried? It made no sense to him. More than once they'd nearly caused one anothers deaths. He should be happy that Oswald was drifting. His thoughts were muddy, his body feeling sluggish. The pain was still there, but even that felt slow, somehow, as if his nerve endings were falling asleep. A hand pressed against his wound, steady pressure to stop the flow of blood.

“Old friend... It's alright. Maybe this is fate.” Oswald breathed in as deeply as he was able, lids slipping shut.

“Don't go getting all fatalistic on me, Oswald. You aren't dying.” Jim snapped, shaking the other man's head with his hand a bit. Opening his eyes, Oswald watched him with as much focus as he could.

“Why do you care?” Oswald hissed in return. He couldn't manage the proper amount of emotion. He couldn't sound angry when he was so _tired_.

“Because I do. Talk to me. Tell me what happened at the dock, why we found you with a hole in your stomach, half drowned.” Jim demanded, detective instincts kicking into gear suddenly at a time when a detective was the last thing needed. Oswald's face contorted at the memory, a trauma as fresh as the one in his abdomen. His stomach and chest tightened, the idea of reliving that scene torture.

“No, no, no!” Oswald choked out. The stabbing pain that gripped him tightened, creeping like a spider's legs from stomach to throat.

“Okay – okay! Not that – tell me... Tell me about...” Jim scrambled, realizing his mistake, hand keeping Oswald's face pointed towards him. He ran his tongue over his lips as he took a half-second to think. “Tell me about your father.”

“M-my father?” Oswald's relief was instant, muscles taut with anguish beginning to loosen.

“Yeah. I never knew anything about him, just that he's... no longer with us.” Jim chose his words carefully. If Oswald wasn't so close to delirium he might have sworn that he felt Jim's thumb stroking his cheek.

“He never knew about me, not until he met me at Mother's grave... he was a good man. Gentle and kind... He accepted me.” Oswald's eyes slipped shut once again as he thought of his father, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah? He knew the kinda stuff you were uh... into?” Jim asked, ever delicate.

“He found out. He was proud that I had become famous.” Oswald's smile formed fully as he recalled that day. The comfort of knowing that his father knew of his misdeeds and loved him all the same warmed him even now, as his body struggled to function.

“Sounds like a good guy... I'm sorry he passed.” Jim smiled a little to him in return.

“He deserved more than his fate.” Oswald watched as patterns of light appeared on the backs of his eyelids, dizzying and alien. “I don't feel right, Jim.”

“I know, Oswald... Lee's coming. Any minute now, okay? She and the doc will patch you right back up. Open those eyes for me, would you?” Jim asked, gently patting his cheek with his fingers.

“You know, Jim... I've imagined you holding my cheek like this before. Not in such circumstances, of course... but I've imagined it many times.” Oswald mused, forcing his heavy lids open. He had never been brave enough to be blunt with Jim about the feelings he once held for him in the past. Oswald had always implied that they needed one another, that they were inexorably linked, but had never told Jim that he adored him on a level that, until recently, he never fully understood. Even now he was hesitant, but what point was there in being shy when the specter of death loomed so close?

“... What.” It was spoken as a statement rather than a question, but Jim's hand remained against his cheek.

“They're so warm, just like I always thought they would be. It's no wonder you win the love of such beautiful women.” Oswald continued. He focused on the feeling of Jim's hand, its rough fingertips and large palm that easily fit the side of his face.

“There's where you're wrong, Oswald... I'm not exactly lucky in love.” Jim's chuckle came as a slight surprise to Oswald, who was expecting to be rebuked in the same way he'd been when his feelings were first confessed to Edward. The shock, the _horror_ in the expression of the man he had once been so close to was something he still saw as clear as day.

“Nor am I, old friend.” Oswald admitted, wanting to chuckle as well but refraining because he had neither the energy nor the desire to feel the pain that would surely accompany it.

“You'll have to tell me all about it when you wake up. Looks like they're here – they're probably gonna have to put you under to work on you, okay?” Jim looked towards the door, hearing something Oswald couldn't in his state.

“Will you be here?” Oswald asked, feeling his lids slowly closing.

“Of course I will. I live here, don't I?” Jim's smirk was the last thing Oswald saw before unconsciousness overtook him.

 


	4. Caretaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald falls into introspection while Jim does his best to take care of him. Oswald begins to remember feelings he had buried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to cry every time I get a comment. I was so happy with that last chapter, all your comments gave me life. <3 Thank you so much.

It took days before Oswald could stay awake for more than ten minutes at a time, and in those short periods the only thing he could manage to do was eat a little and curse the lack of decoration in the room. It was practically sterile in a way that annoyed him. Jim could certainly use a woman's touch around the place. Or anyone's touch, really. Oswald had met dogs with more style than Jim apparently had, if his surroundings were any indicator.

His sleep had been entirely without dreaming. Only the steady blackness brought about by heavy, consecutive doses of morphine. For this he was grateful. Unplagued by images of _him_ and of that gloomy morning, he was actually able to rest, to heal. On the fourth day when he was finally able to stay awake for more than a brief flash, he turned his head to see Gordon sitting in a chair beside the bed that had become Oswald's home. He was studying a file, face soft and lost in thought.

“James.” Oswald croaked, his mouth feeling dusty and wrong from lack of use. He knew he had saline keeping him hydrated, that the feeling of being parched was all in his mind, but saline alone didn't feel like enough. Jim looked to him and gave the barest of smiles.

“Hey... Oh – here.” Jim lifted a bottle of water from the stand beside the bed, uncapping it and bringing it to Oswald's lips. Oswald drank greedily. It was one thing to maintain hydration through intravenous fluids, and another entirely to actually drink. Cool, fresh water relieved his throat and mouth, made him feel more like a human being and less like some sort of beast being kept alive by machines and spite.

“Slow down, don't choke.” Jim raised a brow as he watched him drink, pulling the bottle away briefly.

“I wasn't done.” Oswald muttered. Jim smirked and held it for him again. Slowly the desert that was his mouth was quenched, and he sighed happily.

“Annnd... done. Must feel good. You've barely eaten or drank a thing in the past four days,” Jim told him. “It was pretty touch-and-go for a while...”

“Was it? I don't remember a thing...” Oswald sighed, bringing a hand to his face and immediately going wide eyed. “Oh, good lord.”

“What's wrong?” Jim blinked. With horror, the small man stroked over the facial hair that had been allowed to grow over his days of being barely conscious.

“This...” Oswald was mortified at the feeling of it. He never grew out his facial hair, and there was a reason for it. It was thick, black, and patchier than his memory of the last days.

“Well, the nurse that's been taking care of you wasn't sure what to do about that... I mean, I told her I've known you for years and I've never seen so much as a single whisker on ya, but she didn't want to shave you... Did all the other nurse-stuff though.” Jim chuckled.

“The other... nurse-stuff?” Oswald raised a brow in return.

“You know. Turned you, moved you around so you don't get sores, washed your hair, spong--” Jim went through the list before Oswald cut him short.

“Say no more. Please. I beg you, say no more.” He didn't know if he was more horrified at the thought of some strange woman seeing his bare body or the thought of that strange woman _bathing_ him while he was unconscious.

“She did try to wake you up every time... And honestly, did you wanna wake up smelling like the river?” Jim chuckled again, unable to maintain a straight face at Oswald's obvious humiliation.

“Can we talk about literally anything else in the world?” Oswald whined softly.

“Ah, alright, alright, don't make that noise. You hungry?” Jim redirected, deciding to spare him the teasing he clearly wanted to continue.

“Ravenous.” Oswald nodded a little.

“Alright, I'll make ya a sandwich. How's the pain?” Jim stood, setting the file down.

“I don't feel very much physically, so I suppose that's a positive. I'm a bit afraid to look down, though. Last time I did I imagine I nearly died again.” Oswald chuckled a little, pleased to find that the action didn't cause him the same wretched pain it had earlier in his stay at Jim's makeshift clinic.

“Alright, good. Be right back. Turkey, tomato, and lettuce on sourdough sound good? I got uhh... Mayo and mustard too if you want.” Jim offered.

“All of the above sounds wonderful.” Oswald closed his eyes briefly, happy to not feel horribly dizzy when he did so.

As it were, Oswald was still on the fence about being alive. He couldn't rightly say that he was thankful, not when the thought of death had been one that seemed so comforting so recently. Oswald also couldn't say that he wanted to die outright, though, with his base need for survival keeping him from pursuing suicide outright. He certainly didn't hold the same lust for life that he once did, but to pass on with so many unanswered questions would be a pity.

At best, Oswald was indifferent to his situation.

It was a strange thing, to be apathetic to the very idea of living. Life had a way of beating people down, but Oswald had never faltered in his quest for respect and power the way he had in the most recent year. Perhaps Arkham had rendered him irreparably broken, rewired the parts of his mind that had made him clever and ambitious. He certainly couldn't fathom his behavior as of late making any sense to the Oswald that clawed his way to power over the dead bodies of countless mobsters.

Had his notoriety made him sloppy? Had his need for love and understanding destroyed the man that had once brought Gotham's underworld to its knees? He had always been sentimental, but he had let it go too far. He had become lax when it came to security, both literally and figuratively, letting his mother be taken from him and letting his heart be taken by a rogue who didn't deserve it.

What a fool he'd been!

“Idiot.” Oswald muttered a soft insult towards himself.

“You rang?”

Oswald jerked a little in surprise; Jim had returned, smirking at his own terrible joke.

“Not you...” Oswald corrected softly, gingerly sitting upright.

“Well, I'm the only person here, so either you were trying to summon me or you're stuck in your own head and badmouthing yourself out loud. If it's the latter, cut it out.” Jim said simply.

“You should consider yourself lucky that I'm too tired to argue the facts with you.” Oswald returned, looking to the tray Jim carried. In addition to the sandwich, there was a cup of tea, a small basin of water, shaving cream and a razor. Furrowing his brows, he looked to the other man.

“What? You wanna shave, don't you?” Jim shrugged a shoulder, setting the tray down.

“Of course! I hate the way facial hair looks on me. It makes me look like a pubescent drug peddler.” Oswald agreed.

“Eat first, then shave.” Jim suggested.

“Don't tell me what to do.” Oswald snapped as he picked up the sandwich anyway.

“Alright, alright, you're the boss.” Jim smirked, that almost cheeky twinkle in his eye. The one that Oswald used to daydream about when he wished to be close to the other man. He would imagine that look came after some sly mention of an inside joke they shared. He imagined the joke coming from some secret encounter that took place outside the watchful eyes of those who perpetually stared in Gotham. The rendezvous he would dream up were always something schoolgirl silly, and even now Oswald felt heat rising to his cheeks thinking of them. It was a simpler time for him.

It was a struggle not to gorge himself on the sandwich. Food always provided comfort for him, and though he had never truly gone hungry in his life, he always held some pathological fear of starving. Perhaps it was the way his mother coddled him, fretting that he didn't eat enough and that he was too skinny. His constant desire to see her happy and ease her fears may have led to such an irrational fear, but he suspected most of his quirks led back to her.

Oswald became aware that he was holding the sandwich up, close to his mouth but not biting it... and that Jim was watching him.

“You don't need to stare.” Oswald mumbled, taking a bite and chewing it with deliberate, exaggerated motions.

“Sorry, you just sort of zoned out, I got a little worried. And I also noticed your hands are shaky... So I'm not so sure I wanna let you shave.” The detective frowned. Oswald's eyes grew wide as he finished the bite.

“Please don't take it away. I'm already in a deplorable state, don't make it worse. I can accept being an invalid, I can't accept being an awkwardly scruffy invalid!” He plead, voice riddled with anxiety.

“Jeez, does it really bother you that much?” Jim looked bewildered. “I don't think you look that bad with it.”

“Jim!” Oswald gave a soft whine. The other man cringed a little, shaking his head.

“Alright, alright... You gotta let me do it though. You're shakin' too bad and you can't afford to lose blood anymore. It was enough of a chore getting those last bags when you needed transfusions.” Jim shook his head.

“... Let you do it? You're going to shave me.” Oswald stated, taking another bite.

“It's that or you can stay scruffy.” Jim raised a brow.

“Mmph-” Oswald licked his lips after swallowing the bite, “I wasn't protesting, I was just making sure I heard you correctly. I'm still not entirely sure I'm alive, to be fair. This is a bizarre situation and I still haven't been told why I'm here and not a proper hospital...”

“You're alive. Barely, when we found you, but you're alive,” Jim shook his head, picking up the can of shaving cream. Oswald preferred shaving in a way that was a little less pedestrian than aerosol cream and a disposable razor, but he was in no position to be particular. “Want me to wait 'til you finish your sandwich or is it bugging ya?”

“I'd like to get it done. Whiskers are for cats, not Penguins...” Oswald muttered. The gruff chuckle he was rewarded with was more pleasant than he expected; a fact that made him inexplicably defensive. “What's funny?”

“You. I remember when you hated that nickname.” Jim shook the can as he spoke, getting some of the grotesquely blue goo into his hand. Oswald's eyes slipped shut when his chin and cheeks were coated in the foaming gel. Jim's hands were rough, but he was careful, almost tender when applying the cream.

“Well, Jim... Gotham has taught me a great many things. One of the most important lessons I've learned is that if you wear your flaws like a suit of armor, it's incredibly difficult for people to hurt you with them. Those who aim to hurt you with reminders of your brokenness only end up bolstering your resolve, a prompt to bring to mind all the things you've suffered through only to keep standing despite it all.” Oswald launched into a short, completely unintentional monologue. When he opened his eyes at the end, he found Jim's gaze focused on him, brows furrowed slightly in thought. For the moment before Jim spoke, Oswald couldn't help but become a little nervous, worried on some subconscious level that Jim might be judging him silently.

“Never thought of it like that. Almost forgot that you have a way with words.” Jim offered a half-smile, relieving Oswald's concern instantly.

“Evidently it's one of the few things I have a way with.” Oswald remarked sourly.

With another light chuckle, Jim began to shave Oswald's face, slowly gliding the blades over the underside of his chin. It was an intimate thing on the long list of things that he had never really experienced. Normally it was unfathomable for him to trust anyone so close to his throat with a blade, even if it was just a safety razor. And now, for Jim Gordon to be doing it? Of all people, the man who had abused his trust openly, who had thrown him to the wolves, who had let him rot in Arkham.

As the detective washed the razor off, Oswald regarded him with a tilted head.

It wasn't fair for him to mentally accuse Gordon of abusing his trust, was it? Considering all they had gone though, all they had put one another through, Oswald found himself coming up blank when searching his memories for times that Jim had lied to him. Perhaps the man misused his trust, but it wasn't as if he had ever asked for it in the first place. He worked with him when he said he would work with him, shunned him when he made it clear he wanted him gone... But never had he lied about his intentions.

Not like Edward.

Not like most everyone else in his life.

There was something pure about Jim's open disdain for him in a city full of those that thrived in deceit and sabotage. With Gordon, what you saw was what you got.

“Still deep in thought?” Jim pulled him once more out of his own mind as he started on the other side of Oswald's face.

“Oh, I usually am.” Oswald mumbled softly, careful not to move the muscles in his face too much.

“About what?”

“Oh, the usual. What I'm doing here, how I ended up not dead, revenge...” Oswald lied, shrugging lightly. He would rather the other man talk to fill the silence so that he could avoid his own trains of thought.

“Ah, right.” Jim cleaned the razor again, looking once more to the bedridden man. “Well, the night you went missing, the city went berserk. Jerome, that red-headed circus nut-job... They brought him back to life.”

“Can't anyone **stay dead** in this God forsaken city?!” Oswald squeaked out indignantly. He wasn't fond of that boy; he was chaotic and sloppy. His endeavors in the crime world were ham-handed and purposeless at best.

“Trust me, you're preaching to the choir on that one. So far the only thing that seems to keep the baddies dead is a bazooka, but that ain't in the budget.” Jim smirked knowingly to Oswald as he continued. “So – Jerome pretty much cut power to the city and let his freak show followers run amok. It was a mess. He took Bruce Wayne...”

“That poor child. He's always getting snatched up by someone or other. You'd think he and his butler would do something to fortify that mansion. A security system... Or even just a dog or two.” Oswald remarked. Jim took Oswald's chin in hand and tilted his head to the side to check his work.

“You'd think.” Jim chuckled, checking the other side. “Alright, let's get that mustache...”

“If you can call it that.” Oswald muttered before closing his mouth.

“Anyway, long story short, Bruce is okay now and Jerome's back in the nuthouse. Harv and I are at the station dealing with the rest of the crazies and all the paperwork they gave us, and by this time the sun's finally coming up,” Jim gingerly took care of Oswald's upper lip as he spoke. “Then the door gets thrown open. This big guy comes stomping in, yelling to speak to me. Says the mayor is missing... says he knows where to find him.”

Oswald's puzzled look prompted Jim to continue.

“It was your guy, Gabe. Says I'm the only person in the city he can trust right now to help... Says you're in trouble down by the docks. I asked him why he didn't take care of it, 'cause I know he's pretty much been your muscle for years now. Says it wouldn't do either of you any good if he were to show up 'cause he'd end up with a bullet in the head, but that I would make whoever it was attacking you run off, provided I came with my partner and maybe the dogs.” Jim continued to talk as he examined Oswald's face for any missed spot, cleaning him off.

“Gabe...” Oswald mumbled with fondness. Maybe not everyone in his life was a liar. He had Gabriel, steadfast and loyal, always painfully honest with him. He made a mental note to try and figure out a way to reward the man.

“Yeah. He's been by a couple times to check on you, but he's waiting for the heat to die down so he never stays more than a few minutes.” Jim pulled the shaving tools from the tray so that Oswald could focus on his food and tea.

“He's a good man. I'm lucky to have him.” Oswald remarked. “Now... why am I in your apartment?”

“Necessity. You'd be found too easily by your enemies if you were kept in the hospital. Chop shops are out of the question... And we couldn't keep you at the station because we've had some issues with cop loyalty as of late, so we didn't want to run the risk of someone ratting to the underworld and getting the GCPD shot up **again**. Harvey called in a favor with a friend and got us some equipment, Lee found a trustworthy nurse to help out... and I'm on guard duty. My apartment ain't the most secure, but there's only one door in and out, I had a spare room, and no one will think that I'd be willing to keep you here.” Jim explained, leaning back against the wall.

“So _why_ were you willing? It's been getting to me since you first told me where I was.” Oswald asked, still a little lost about the whole situation.

“Never leave your unit behind.” Jim looked to him, face stoic. There was something unreadable in his eyes at that moment, something distant and mysterious. It was alarming to Oswald. Jim had always been very cut and dry, black and white... But he supposed that life in Gotham eventually pushed even the most morally incorruptible into shades of gray.

“Never...?” Oswald didn't understand the statement. Some vague reference to his military days, to be sure, but when had he ever been in Jim's 'unit'? They had fought side by side before, of course, but unit implied some camaraderie, some connection. Jim had always denied they had any at all.

“I've done you wrong in the past, Oswald. I've ignored you when you needed me. I've used you. You laid yourself on the line for me and I abandoned you. I let you rot in Arkham where that sicko Strange tortured you, even after you begged me t--” Jim's eyes lowered as he spoke.

“Jim... I forgive you.” Oswald stopped the apology, heart in his throat as he watched. When those lovely blue eyes raised, they were filled with relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

Oswald had never expected any sort of admission of guilt from the other man for the harm he had done. As with many things, he had merely accepted that Jim could never see him as anything other than a criminal, as a tool to be used when the situation was dire. Oswald's eyes grew glassy, filling with tears. The apology meant so much more to him than Jim could possibly know. It meant that Jim saw him as something more than some overly ambitious thug, more than some violent weasel who would be better off rotting in jail or in an unmarked grave somewhere.

It meant that Oswald _mattered_ to James.

And that maybe, at long last, he finally understood that he needed Oswald as much as Oswald needed him.

 


	5. Rumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald contemplates his situation, and his feelings towards Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm sorry about the delay in posting! I'm at the tail end of my school semester so things have been frantic on my end. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments, they give me life <3
> 
> This fic will be completed before the Gotham hiatus is over, though, don't worry.

Oswald was rarely left to his own devices while trapped in that little bed in the spare room of Jim's apartment. If Jim wasn't in the apartment, Lee was. If Lee wasn't there, it was that nurse, who seemed convinced that Oswald wasn't capable of carrying out his own basic hygiene routine. It took Oswald telling her that he would use every bit of his strength to throttle her if she didn't let him wash himself for her to back off a bit. He had tried a number of times to walk, but his body protested it each time after only a few steps. The ribs broken during Jim's rough CPR were still in a dubious state, and the gut wound still ached even nearly two weeks after he received it.

It was hard to feel like himself when he was forced to rely on others for his needs. It was hard to feel like himself when he was stripped of his autonomy, disconnected from his network of people. It was difficult to not be dressed in a way that made him feel powerful. To make matters worse, he wasn't allowed liquor while on pain medication, per Thompkins orders. Wretched woman. What business was it of hers if he wanted to black out every now and again? He was healing nicely. She had said so herself.

That day, Oswald was relatively alone for a few hours. Harvey Bullock was watching over the apartment while Jim and Leslie attended to a case. The gruff detective (captain? Oswald wasn't sure these days) opted to stay outside in his car because he “just plain don't like the guy”, so that even if Oswald wanted to speak with him he couldn't. The sentiment of dislike was mutual, to a degree. Harvey was always vile and rude to him years ago, when he was Fish's umbrella boy. He never took him seriously as the King of Gotham, and showed open disfavor when Oswald was elected as Mayor. Oswald didn't much mind that, though. Better open hatred then quiet pandering, he figured. It was much easier to deal with, more simple to process. With Jim as a buffer between the two, he could even _tolerate_ the surly bearded fellow.

A television had been dragged into the room to keep him occupied, along with a small, rather sad, and slapdash collection of books from Jim's personal "collection”. Among Oswald's potential reading materials was the entire collection of Winston Churchill's memoir, 'The Second World War', a battered copy of The Great Gatsby, and one incredibly trashy looking romance novel that Jim blamed on the last woman who had stayed the night. Oswald made it a point to openly disbelieve him because he enjoyed the idea of Jim curling up with a comfortable blanket, a glass of cheap red wine, and a book whose cover art featured a shirtless muscleman with a tiny, demure damsel on his arm, their long hair windswept and flowing with the implied breeze.

The existential dread that had filled him the first week of being there had faded a bit, but Oswald had since discovered the worst part of being heavily injured. It wasn't the pain that plagued him, nor the constant need for care. It wasn't even the deplorable lack of available alcohol.

The worst part about being trapped in that room was the soul-crushing boredom. Even in Arkham there was constant stimulation. The vast majority of it was unwanted stimulation, be it electroshock “therapy” or the wailing of the damned down every corridor, but it was something. There in the little room with the little bed, the mayor felt completely without power, disabled and vulnerable. To leave required strength that, at that point, he did not possess. He could only keep himself so amused with the books and television, and so he often found himself lost in thought.

Rumination had become his most newest and most burdensome hobby. When Lee or Jim were around he tended to hold conversation with them just to avoid his own mind, but he inevitably found himself slipping down the rabbit hole of self-deprecation. Most trains of thought led him to the conclusion that he was an overly ambitious idiot with no place in the world save for an ill-fitting niche he was forced to carve out for himself. He was a mimic, a fraud, the brood parasite trying to pawn its burdens off on others. Oswald was prey pretending at being a predator, puffing out his feathers in the hope of avoiding the pain that being small and weak would cause.

His entire life had been one big attempt at competence, and there in Jim's spare room, he truly felt the weight of his weakness. There only because of the kindness of others. Gabriel, who Oswald knew loved his mother and swore had sworn to her that he would protect her son. Lee, who pitied him because she knew what it was like to be beaten into submission by Gotham. Harvey, whose surly nature was overridden by his sense of justice to an almost alarming capacity, swayed always by Jim.

And Jim. Jim, Gotham's golden boy. What kindness did he owe to Oswald? He often found his thoughts straying towards thoughts of him when he wasn't around. Jim was an enigma to Oswald, a mystery that even a certain riddle-spewing traitor couldn't crack. He had seen so many men and women broken by Gotham of their goodness. Those who had spent their lives law-abiding turning to crime because of the mind-altering effect the city seemed to have.

But Jim.

Jim was so different. He was harder than before, when he first became an officer, but only out of necessity. Heartache upon heartache had been piled on the man over the years, pains upon pains. Oswald had lost track of how many times he had heard of Jim losing the job he both loved and detested. He had heard how many times the man had been brought to the brink of ruin only to drag himself or be dragged by others back into the light. He had so many demons, but above it all, Jim had a purpose. One never-ending quest to right the countless wrongs that took place in Gotham, regardless of the steep cost.

And oh, how Oswald admired him, secretly and mostly from afar. He envied Jim's drive to enact justice, adored that the conclusions Jim usually came to in moral dilemmas were ones that would do the most good. Oswald never had it in himself to be good. He craved order, but was unfortunately intimately aware of the nature of humans. He was privy to the knowledge that most men, when faced with the decision between self-serving and self-sacrifice, would resoundingly choose the former. Jim's insistence on choosing the latter was something that made him remarkable to the mayor.

Looking towards the open doorway, Oswald gave a gentle sigh. When he first met Jim he had become instantly enamored with him, holding towards him the sort of longing that one would hold towards and old friend not seen in years. There was something innately _familiar_ about Jim, something warm and magnetic in his personality that made Oswald want to know him. The detective could be surly, could be mean and violent, but who was Oswald to judge that? He saw underneath all of that. He saw through the roughness, the front that Jim put on to protect himself.

He could see through it because he understood it intimately.

And now Oswald found himself missing the mans company. He had always craved Jim's attention, and when he was in the apartment he was always at Oswald's side. It was a far cry from where their relationship had been in the past. To have Jim speak with him willingly and not because Oswald coerced him or because of some case was something he took no small amount of joy in. He found catharsis in their simple conversations, discovering little things that he never would have known otherwise. He had learned that Jim didn't like wine because it always gave him headaches. He now knew that the detective loved to watch cooking shows but couldn't cook to save his life. He knew that Jim wanted a dog more than anything but was too worried that he would accidentally neglect it to get one.

There was a time when Oswald would banter the night away with Edward, discussing everything and nothing all at once. He seemed to be settling into that with Jim now that he was practically bed bound. But what would happen when he was in fighting shape? Would Jim scorn him once more? Would he cast him to the street and deny the closeness they had forged?

Would Oswald be betrayed again?

Shaking his head, Oswald frowned. Jim owed him nothing so he shouldn't think such things. It was selfish and exactly the reason he was in this situation to begin with. It wouldn't do to be so possessive, especially over a man who seemed to prefer leggy, lovely women. He lacked all three of those qualities. He was only leggy in the sense that he couldn't walk properly (let alone in the heels all of Jim's lovers seemed fond of), he was by no definition lovely, and he was absolutely not a woman.

The thought crossed his mind that maybe that's why he had pursued Edward. Sure, the man had only ever been with women, but he always came across as the type who cared little for assigned genders. Maybe Oswald had pushed all of his affections towards Edward in the hope of reciprocation, the type he never dreamed would be given by Jim. Oswald had never fancied women the way he did men, not even when he was young. It wasn't strange to him, just a fact of his life.

But he also didn't want to be one of those flamboyant hussies flitting about dimly lit gay clubs chatting up strange men for a night of “fun”. The very idea made his nose wrinkle. If he was to have love, it would be _love_ , not lust. It would be holding one another when things were rough, not rutting like animals. It would be caring for one another deeply and intimately, not something based in physicality. There was enough of that in his life already and he had an abundance of scars to prove it.

Groaning softly, Oswald put a pillow over his face. He didn't even know why he dwelt on such things. Jim feeling something aside from irritation and pity towards Oswald was more than enough for him, wasn't it? Years of pining had resigned him to the idea that Gordon would never view him romantically, would never want all of the stereotypical things with him. He would never smile at the sight of him. He would never take comfort in his arms. He would never –

“Hey! I'm home. Miss me?” A voice cut into his thoughts.

Jim stood in the doorway, grin plastered on his face, looking a little like a happy puppy. Oswald's breath caught in his throat at the sight of him. I'm home, Jim had said. He had greeted him like the lover that he had left at home for the day. His heart pounded in his chest in a way it hadn't in a long time at the prospect of being near the blond.

“... Yes, I did.” Oswald mumbled, voice quietly serious.

Oswald felt a familiar twinge in his chest. His heart fluttered at Jim's approach, a reverent smile crossing the mayors lips. Adoration washed over him as he found himself wanting nothing more than to hear about Jim's day. Feeling such a sweet, gentle warmth towards the man was something he never knew he missed.

It was like coming home.

 


	6. To Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald learns that it's okay to ask for help and speak his mind when Jim is around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how much I love you guys for all your comments? Because I love you guys for all your comments. <3

“I brought you something.” Jim said, one hand behind his back. Oswald, still entranced by the cheery expression on the other mans face, could do little more then nod, head tilting to denote curiosity.

When Jim pulled his hand out, Oswald's hand went over his mouth in pleased surprise. In his grip was a beautiful black cane topped with the chrome head of a bird. It was the favorite of Oswald's growing collection; how Jim had found it remained to be seen. Pale eyes widening, Oswald shifted carefully to sit upright.

“I figured since you'd been having trouble staying on your feet one of your canes might help... I always saw you with this one on TV.” Jim moved closer to the bed bound man.

“How did you find it?” Oswald asked, wrapping his fingers around the perfectly weighted wood. It felt familiar in his hands, it felt _right_. It was some vestige of his former glory, brought back by the one man he never expected to be his encouragement, his salvation.

“I went to your mansion to 'investigate',” The man made air quotes around the word, “I woulda grabbed some suits and more stuff but I didn't want anyone getting suspicious.”

“Jim... Thank you.” Oswald looked to him, awestruck by the kindness of the gesture but unable to put that thought into proper words.

“Don't worry about it. You can thank me by giving it a try. I know you've been going nuts staying in this room...” Jim returned, watching as Oswald draped his legs over the side of the bed.

“It hasn't been all bad.” Oswald admitted.

He found himself hesitating to place his feet on the floor. What if the cane was all he needed to walk properly? What if it signified the end of his time there with Jim? The end of actual pleasant conversations with the man he so admired. The end of comfortable silences shared when conversation didn't seem necessary. The end of Jim making him lunch for him even when he was too tired to eat. What if the cane represented Jim's last symbolic push for Oswald to leave his care? What if Jim was only seeking forgiveness to alleviate his guilt enough that he wouldn't be burdened with thoughts of Oswald anymore?

Oswald's chest felt heavy, his throat tight. The promise of future loneliness sat like a rock in his gut, a rock that was shaped alarmingly like the scar tissue that had filled his gunshot wound. They were too different in ways that Oswald had previously simply refused to acknowledge. Jim would move on, get himself some wonderful woman to have beautiful blue eyed children with. Oswald, though, was destined to live alone, to drift through life filling the chasm in his heart with money and power. He might never truly feel whole, but at least ideas couldn't betray you the way people did. He would watch over Jim, of course, help him when it was convenient for the other man...

“Hey... Lost ya again. What's on your mind?” Jim's voice pulled his clouded mind back into focus once again.

“Too much,” Oswald mumbled, forcing a smile. “But I won't trouble you with it. Give me your arm so I can pull myself up.”

Jim didn't press the issue. He merely did as told, leaning down and offering out his crooked arm for Oswald to take. One hand curled around his pleasantly muscular forearm while the other held the head of the cane tight. With a little assistance, he was on his feet. The cane proved to be immeasurably helpful, as he suspected it would. It was strong enough to face up to Oswald's weight when he leaned on it fully, and the capped bottom kept him steady. When he was able, Oswald stood up straight despite the sharp pain it caused in his ribs. He found he didn't mind it so much as a replacement for the unwanted ache in his heart that his thoughts brought about.

“There you go.” Jim mumbled, beginning to pull away his arm.

“Don't.” Oswald barked out, holding him a little tighter. Whether he did so for the contact or for the stability he couldn't be sure, but Jim only chuckled.

“Alright, alright. I got ya.” Jim watched Oswald's feet as he began to take steps, slow but sure.

“Have you nursed someone back to health before, Jim?” Oswald forced a chuckle, suddenly needing to talk to fill the small space between himself and the other man.

“Can't say that I have, no. I can barely take care of myself so usually I leave this sorta thing to professionals.” Jim admitted as he served as Oswald's stability.

“I think you're actually pretty good at it. You're very attentive in a way I never imagined you to be.” Oswald took his steps slowly, shakily, but at an even pace. His chest burned and his body felt deplorably weak, but he continued on. The only way he would ever make any progress was to push past his limits, a lesson he had learned many years before. He couldn't just stay at Jim's place forever, despite the growing part of him that found pleasure in the idea.

“Yeah? I'll have to keep that in mind if I get kicked out of the Force again.” Jim chuckled again, his tone jokingly self-deprecating in a way that Oswald related to entirely.

“I imagine you'd probably just go right back to bounty hunting. You were good at it.” Oswald muttered absently.

“You knew about that?” Jim raised a brow. Oswald felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. They hadn't exactly been on friendly terms during that period of time, nor was it common knowledge that Jim had spent time as a hunter.

“I... Checked in on you, here and there. To see how you were doing.” The Mayor mumbled, keeping his eyes on his feet.

“From anyone else I'd find that kinda weird, Oswald.” Jim admitted, though his voice didn't betray any hidden disgust or dismay.

“It's just something I do... I like to keep track of people.” Oswald had walked to the door of the room over the course of their brief conversation, and though he was still in pain, it was not as debilitating as it had been in days past.

“Don't worry, I wasn't judging. You could have just dropped by or called me, though.” Jim remarked, to Oswald's surprise. Surprise at Jim's behavior had become something unnervingly common since his arrival. He was acting almost fond lately, which dumbfounded Oswald to no end. Had he written off hope of at least having him as a friend too soon? Had the pit of despair Oswald had made himself comfortable in clouded his judgment, as so many things did?

“It wasn't like we were on good terms at the time.” Oswald reminded him.

“Yeah, I know...” Jim opened his mouth for a moment, but shook his head, as if pushing away some other comment. His face was as difficult to read as ever as they walked through the hallway. “How you feeling? You're doing much better then before.”

“It's much easier with support. Suppose that's true of many things, hm?” Oswald quipped, looking up at the man. Jim was staring straight ahead, stoic but for the slight twitching of the corner of his lip in a little smile.

“Got that right. Tell me when you wanna go back, okay?” Jim looked to him.

“I think I'd like to now, actually. My chest is aching.” Oswald admitted.

“Can you make it back walking?” Jim asked.

“Well, I don't very well expect you to carry me back.” Oswald chuckled.

“I would.” Jim smirked. The full force of Oswald's blush was surely visible at that point, and he stared hard at the ground to avoid notice, thanking God for their height difference.

“That won't be necessary.” He muttered.

He didn't want to indulge himself in any more physical contact. It would make separating from him and returning to his own ridiculous life that much harder. Jim gave a lame chuckle as he helped the smaller man back to the room, and, once there, back on to the bed. Leaning back into the generous stack of pillows, Oswald relaxed himself a bit. It was a relief to lay back down, but a relief that came with a healthy dose of worry at the prospect of the permanent damage done by Edward's betrayal. He was already crippled by his leg, making all his wheelings and dealings need far more effort then your everyday able-bodied Kingpin. If he couldn't breathe easily on top of that, he would never be able to be the man he once was.

“I bet you really wanna get outta here, don't you?” Jim pulled him out of his thoughts for the third time that day. He looked to him.

“Can I be perfectly honest, James?” Oswald fidgeted to get comfortable against the nest of pillows.

“I prefer it when you're honest. Takes a lot of the guess work out of talking to you.” Jim chuckled, taking his place in the seat at the side of the bed.

“Well, honestly... I... I've been having some difficulty with the thought of leaving.” Oswald admitted, his voice soft and worried. His nerves had made a sudden resurgence when faced with the premise of admitting any sort of feelings to the blond, the mostly straight-laced cop with whom he held a friendship that was dubious at best (on Jim's part, at least). His hands fidgeted with the fabric of his shirt in some vague attempt to self-soothe.

“Yeah? How so?” Jim asked, brows furrowing in what seemed to be concern.

“It's a number of things that are... worrying me.” Oswald's face felt hot, the beating of his heart growing louder and louder within his chest. His own telltale heart threatening to betray all that he strove to keep secret.

“You can talk to me about it. I ain't gonna judge you.” Jim reassured him. Oswald laughed, a choked noise that caught in his throat embarrassingly.

“Oh, Jim... I don't expect not to be judged. On the contrary, I've come to expect it.” Oswald grumbled his words, and was met with a furrowed brow and serious expression.

“Oz... I mean it. I'm not gonna judge you. Whatever it is, alright? Say what's on your mind.” Jim told him.

A new rush of emotion washed over Oswald, a tidal wave triggered by the affectionate shortening of his name. The sound of Jim speaking his name in such a way filled his heart with a light brighter than the morning sun and a thousand times more intense. It was a new melody in a world that had been robbed long ago of its ability to sing. To hear it from Jim's lips, of all the lips in the world, coupled with the look of concern etched in his brows... Oswald found himself dumbstruck again briefly, lips parted as he watched the other man's face in the wide-eyed wonder he had once shown for Edward.

“I... I don't want to lose you.” Oswald told him, voice small and lacking any of the airs it normally projected as a defense.

“... What do you mean, lose me?” Jim asked, face softening. Oswald had to force himself to focus, to soldier on through his own admissions. He knew that Jim wouldn't kick him to the curb in such a piteous state, not when he could barely walk. If he needed to, he could backtrack and blame the pain for his reckless words.

“I don't want it to go back to the way it was between you and I. I don't want you to hate me again. I don't want to feel compelled to practically beg for your favor like some sort of abused animal seeking praise... I know I've said I feel our fates are intertwined before, Jim, and I mean that. I really do. But I don't want that to be true if it means being constantly at war with you. I admire you so much more than I've ever said aloud... Admire you, envy you, wa...” Oswald rambled; he was grateful to be cut off at the end, before he could say the last words. To admit out loud that he _wanted_ Jim the way that he did would mortify him to the core.

“Oswald, Oswald, relax. Please, relax.” Jim mumbled soothingly, bringing a hand to rest over the other mans hand. Instant relief spilled over Oswald when he realized that the motion was to calm rather than to strike out at, and that he seemed genuinely concerned over how worked up Oswald was becoming.

“Since we're being honest, can I come clean about something too?” Jim asked, looking up at Oswald, fingers curling around Oswald's palm (which he was sure was horrifyingly clammy). Oswald could only offer a mute nod.

“I've been re-evaluating my way of thinking, lately. I came into the GCPD with some real firm ideas of what was right and what was wrong, and though I still believe I know the difference, I've kinda learned that it's never that simple. That everyone has a story, everyone has some driving force. I always thought mine was that I was good, and people like you were evil. Thinking like that... it really makes it easy to disconnect yourself, you know? You put yourself on a level and you put everyone who deviates below you. But the longer I stay in Gotham, the more crazy crap I see, the more I realize that it isn't right to think that way. I can be good without making myself a martyr all the time, without lording whatever moral bullcrap I've convinced myself of that particular week over everyone I see. There's corruption everywhere, and I want to get rid of it, but going around acting like I'm some sort of fricking saint isn't doing me any favors.” Jim had a little ramble of his own, as if he were trying to make sense of his own thoughts out loud. He squeezed Oswald's hand rhythmically as he spoke. He could tell it was a hard-won conclusion, and part of Oswald felt pride for the man for being able to talk about it.

“You are a good man, Jim. You're exactly the sort of man that Gotham needs more of... but there's no one like you out there.” Oswald said softly as he squeezed the man's hand in return.

“Thanks for thinking so,” Jim gave a half-smile, “But it's getting harder and harder to believe that. Gotham's a crazy place and sometimes I think about hanging it all up, going somewhere more calm.”

“Gotham needs you, Jim.” Oswald told him softly, “I need you.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Oswald feared right away that he had overstepped, that his admission would cause the other man to withdraw the way he feared he would. His fears were assuaged by the squeezing of Jim's hand around his own. Such tender contact was more than he had ever dreamed possible between he and Jim, whose physicality had once been confined to rough confrontation and thick, nearly tangible tension. He found himself staring at their hands, noting the contrast in skin tone and thickness of their fingers. Jim's hands were large, healthy, and powerful, but capable of remarkable gentleness. Oswald's hands were pale, thin, and frail looking, but capable of overwhelming violence.

He lifted his eyes to regard the other man, and found that he, too, was observing their clasped hands. When he raised his eyes, there was a little smirk on his lips and a warmth to his eyes.

“Then I guess I'll have to stick around, huh?”

A grin spread across Oswald's lips.

 


	7. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Jim clear the air.

Within the next two weeks, Oswald made significant progress. His damaged ribs were healing well; Lee told him that they were right on scheduled to be fully healed within the usual six weeks. Breathing had become less of a chore, and the constant ache in his abdomen had dulled with time. Walking, though still awkward and limping, came much easier. As such, he was no longer confined to the bedroom, able to take care of his own needs for the most part.

He and Jim had become closer than he ever thought possible. It was the sort of closeness Oswald had always yearned for in the past. Sometimes they would speak for hours at a time, learning little details about one another they had never thought to ask about before. Sometimes they would sit in mutual silence, comfortable just being on one anothers presence. They would take meals together when Jim wasn't at work, and when he wasn't around Oswald would tend the house. It was comforting in a strange way for him to be allowed to look after the detective in that way, a parallel to the domesticity he had come to enjoy with Edward in the months prior.

But there was something inherently different between the two relationships.

Now that he had been forced through violence to step back and stay far away from Edward, he had begun to notice some things about the nature of their partnership. He didn't realize how reliant he had become on the other man. Ed attended to his schedule, planned every part of his routine, even lived with him and dictated when he ate and slept. He had become dependent on Nygma to be the one in control, to keep his appearance neat and to keep his public persona likable. He had almost completely lost sense of himself as an individual.

He didn't realize how much of an impact that co-dependence had made, how parasitic the seemingly innocent bond had been. With Edward controlling his routine, his comings and goings, even his meals, Oswald had become lax. He had fallen into the habit of relying on the other man to think **for** him, and in turn it had dulled his own wits. Whatever damage Strange had done to Oswald's brain had just been amplified by Edward's ability to micromanage.

Oswald had always needed to feel safe and comforted, a need that had been filled his entire life by his mother. Her death, his most tragic failure, had sent him into a spiral of despair leading up to that point. Galavan, his time at Edward's apartment, Arkham, meeting and losing his father, his return to power, all the time spent seeking out Edward's favor... It had all started with his mother. The mother who had raised him by herself, who had kept him sane and safe, who had shielded him from the slings and arrows of life while still teaching him strength.

She had been his anchor, and without her, Oswald had been lost at sea, floundering to and fro seeking out the meaning and security her loss had taken away from him. He had been desperately searching for something to mend his broken heart, and Edward had picked up on that. Whether it was innocent or not, the other man had become the replacement Oswald was hunting for without knowing what it was he sought. They had become quickly enamored with one another. Oswald provided the acceptance and recognition Edward so deeply craved, and Edward provided the constant reassurances of worth and doting that Oswald felt lost without. It had made him haphazard and foolish.

With Jim, it was different.

Jim encouraged him without fostering a dependence. When Oswald used his cane the first few times, he also used Jim's arm to balance and support himself. The fourth time, Jim had pulled away, telling him that he would never get better if he didn't do it on his own. Oswald had gotten angry and demanded he return to help him, but Jim refused to buckle, telling him he needed to at least try without him there. He told him that he would remain in the room in case he needed him, but that he believed Oswald to be strong enough to do it on his own. He told him that he had seen Oswald bounce back from much worse then a couple cracked ribs.

Oswald had been disarmed by the sentiment, by the idea of anyone considering him strong in any way. For all his years of scheming and scraping, of conniving and fighting, he could not remember anyone ever telling him that he was strong. A survivor, ambitious, clever... but never strong. In fact, he had always felt the opposite. He was weak, in his own eyes, in every manner imaginable. It was weakness that caused him to hatch plots to get his way. It was weakness that kept him under the heel of bigger fish until he weaseled his way out. It was weakness that led to overzealous pride that had gotten his mother killed. Weakness led him to Arkham, where his weakness led to his breaking, and so forth until he found himself at the bottom of the river, submitting to death.

But hearing Jim call him strong enough to walk on his own had unlocked a peace inside him that he had never felt. He wanted to prove Jim right, and so he had, walking with only the cane from then on. The detective had continued to encourage him every step of the way, insistent that Oswald possessed the ability to heal, to overcome this pain of both body and heart. Oswald didn't believe it, but he wanted desperately to please Jim by validating his belief with results.

With Jim, he wasn't put on a pedestal, nor was he looked down on as lesser.

With Jim, Oswald was an equal.

Oswald blinked as he felt something strike his forehead. Looking down, he saw the object and laughed; it was a rolled up piece of bread, flung across the table by Jim to get his attention. He flicked it back towards the other man, making a face at him.

“Don't waste bread.” Oswald chided softly.

“'Kay.” Jim grinned, popping the piece into his mouth. “See, no waste.”

“You're awful.” Oswald smiled, fondness in his eyes.

“It's just my nature. Can't help it.” Jim chuckled, leaning back and taking a sip of his drink. It was night time, and Jim was settling in after a 12 hour day at the GCPD; Oswald had dinner waiting for him when he came home.

“Well, we can't fight who we are.” Oswald conceded, leaning back in his seat.

“Very true.” Jim looked down to his plate, furrowing his brows lightly. “So, I've been meaning to ask you something.”

“Have you?” Oswald returned, curious.

“Yeah.” Jim leaned back in his seat, looking into Oswald's eyes as he spoke. “You never did tell me what happened between you and Nygma.”

Oswald made a conscious effort not to appear as shaken as he was by the question. In the nearly four weeks Oswald had been staying there, Jim had only asked about it once, the time that Oswald had nearly bled out. The reaction was so serious that Jim went out of his way to avoid mentioning the former member of the GCPD team altogether, which Oswald had been thankful for. But he couldn't avoid it forever, that much was clear. At this point, the detective had a right to know.

“A lot, honestly.” Oswald admitted, a sad frown on his lips, freezing there as he spoke.

“Can we talk about it?” Jim asked, cautious.

“I suppose I've avoided it long enough, haven't I?” Oswald mumbled.

“It bothered you, I understand. But I'd really like to know and I'd appreciate hearing about it 'cause it's been bugging me for weeks.” Jim admitted in turn. “If you want to say anything, I promise it's all off the record.”

“Well, you recall some time ago how I was hurt and disappeared for a while, and the next time you saw me I was with him? That was the beginning of our friendship. He looked to me as something of a mentor, and we remained close even when he was in Arkham. I would visit him, send him things to make life more tolerable there... When he came out of it I brought him to live with me in my family's manor. I gave him his job, and living with him brought us even closer together.” Oswald omitted any mention of shady dealings; he trusted that Jim would not use this against him, but it was in his nature to avoid any possibility of future implications.

“Yeah, Harvey and I were... surprised when we heard about that on the news.” Jim chuckled softly.

“He did so much for me, and he was always reliable and kind and I... I fell in love with him.” Oswald lowered his eyes, inherently fearful of judgment. Though he saw nothing wrong with how he felt, it brought scorn from others more often then not. Another part of him knew he had nothing to fear from the other man.

“Yeah, I thought as much.” Jim's voice was surprisingly soft. Oswald lifted his eyes, shocked.

“... You did?” Oswald muttered.

“Every time I'd watch you guys on the news, there was this way you looked at him. Reminded me of when you used to have a crush on me back in the day.” Jim said it so casually that Oswald couldn't help but lean back in his seat.

“What!?” He sputtered, horrified.

“I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but...” Jim gave a little smirk, and Oswald sank into his seat, hoping that if he made himself small enough he would disappear.

“W-was I so obvious?” He stuttered out. He hoped the scar tissue in his wound would spontaneously disintegrate and allow him to bleed out, the thought of death less embarrassing than this line of conversation.

“You were.” Jim watched him closely.

“Is that why you hated me so much?” Oswald couldn't help asking. Jim's face softened considerably, his brows once again furrowed in what looked to be a mixture of offense and concern.

“What? Of course not, Oswald. I didn't like you because you were a criminal and I had a major superiority complex. I didn't like you because you started a fucking gang war... I didn't like you because we nearly got each other killed about a hundred times over the years. I never hated you, and I sure as hell didn't dislike you for having a thing for me.” Jim's voice was almost scolding, dashing the thought of any homophobia Oswald may have assumed of him.

“Well, I suppose that's good to know.” Oswald gave a weak smile, opting to return to the topic at hand before he stupidly admitted that the feelings he once had were stronger now then ever before. “As for Edward, though... I wanted to confess my feelings to him, but each time I went to do so it was as if my brain stopped functioning and my mouth became incapable of forming the right words. And I lost my chance, because a woman caught his attention the day I was finally set to tell him.”

“... The one that looked like Kristen Kringle?” Jim raised a brow.

“Yes. Her. Isabella... He met her while going out to get wine for our dinner and didn't come back home until the early morning, after I'd been up all night panicking about his whereabouts. They knew each other for all of a week before Ed decided he was in love with her, spending all his time with her, completely _ignoring_ me...” Oswald scowled despite himself.

“Got a little jealous, then?” Jim raised a brow.

“More than a little. I tried to be supportive but I just... didn't have it in me, because I wanted him for myself. There was a point where he wanted to break up with her and asked me to do it, which I did sort of gleefully... There was something about that woman that was just, off.” Oswald explained. It still bothered him. No one was that perfect. No one fit a fantasy that well.

“Makes sense, because we couldn't find any records on her.” Jim told him. Oswald's heart dropped.

“What do you mean?” He asked, eyes going wide.

“When she turned up on the slab and we got her name, we did some digging. Isabella Flynn was the 84 year old woman who worked at that library before disappearing over a year ago. Nygma's girl appeared to be 27, 28 at most, and sure as hell didn't match up physically to the pictures we had on file.” Jim told him, voice grim. “I've got some suspicions as to who she actually was, but with everything happening lately the only thing we could do was have her buried and move on.”

“What... what are your suspicions?” Oswald croaked, lump forming in his throat.

“The main one is that she's one of Strange's experiments. That he got a hold of the pieces of Kringle's body and cloned her, somehow... That she was set loose with the intention of causing a rift between the two of you, or to spy, or something. I don't know for sure.” Jim informed him.

“... If you knew all this, why did you ask me what happened?” Oswald's head was fuzzy, confused at the implications of Jim's words.

“Because I didn't know all the details... I thought you might have feelings for him, but I didn't know how deep it ran.” Jim admitted.

“ _Had_ feelings for him. It's hard to maintain love for a person who does his best to kill you. Even you had the heart not to put a bullet in me the many times it would have benefited you to do so. After her death he lost it for a while. Spent his time crazed over her loss, and eventually he came to me and... and tricked me into admitting I loved him.  His reaction, Jim... It was so cruel.  He looked absolutely disgusted.  And after that, he spent a fair amount of time torturing me in his own way before ending it at the docks.” Oswald whispered, tears filling his eyes and spilling over all at once.

Oswald was bitter at his own feelings, conflicted and confused. He wanted to be over Edward, to move on and never think of him again, but in Gotham, there would be no such luck. He would have to eventually confront the man who had broken him so thoroughly, that much was clear. If only to throw in his face that the girlfriend he had shunned him for was a snake in the grass. So wrapped up in his own thoughts was Oswald that he didn't notice Jim slipping out of his seat to move to a closer one, arm wrapping around Oswald's broad but thin shoulders.

“Listen... I don't know all the details of what went down between you two, but I don't want to see you crying over him. You gave him more than he deserved and from what I'm guessing, he just threw it back in your face. You bent over backwards to give him another shot at life and I'm sorry it went down the way it did for you.” Jim said. Oswald only half heard him, leaning against him and placing his head against the other man's shoulder.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Oswald closed his eyes and brought a hand over to cling to Jim's shirt. The tears were cathartic, necessary, tears mourning what Oswald had lost when Edward tried to end his life, mourning what they could have been together. To Oswald, there was nothing more tragic than the death of potential. The fact that Edward could be torn from him so easily by some too good to be true experiment was came as something of a relief. The grief of something beautiful lost had weighed heavily on his heart those past weeks, but the tears he shed now were healing. The burden of his own sorrow began to lighten as he wept against Jim's shoulder. If Edward was so easily swayed away from him, then it was never meant to be.

He was only vaguely aware of being pulled completely into the larger man's arms, held in the way he had held him when pulling him from the river. Oswald felt tiny against him, surrounded entirely by comforting strength, protected in a way he needed more than anything at that moment. James' scent, heady and familiar, filled his nose, and he found himself pressing into his chest to take in more of it. His body shuddered as he cried, and Jim responded by rocking him gently, one hand stroking his back.

“It's alright, Oswald... You're gonna be okay. I've seen you bounce back so many times... I've always been kinda jealous of that.” Jim reassured him.

“J-jealous?” Oswald stumbled, voice soft and meek.

“You've been through more than most people in the last few years, but you keep fighting. I've lost a lot and it's... changed me, a lot. And I don't know if it's for the better. Sometimes I think about just giving up and drinking myself stupid.” Jim stared off as he spoke, eyes distant. Oswald watched him, tears slowing as concern outweighed his need for emotional relief.

“You have changed for the better, Jim. I think so, at least. You've always been such a good man... You think about giving up but you don't. You... inspire me, in that way. I've always admired you, even when I felt betrayed by you.” Oswald told him, shifting to sit up a little in his lap.

“Why would you admire me?” Jim smiled a bitter smile, one that Oswald recognized because he did it so often himself.

“Because you're worthy of admiration, James. I've always thought so. You're steadfast and you care about Gotham, even if you have every reason not to. I adore you, truly. I always have.” Oswald's admission couldn't have been a surprise to Jim, because he just smiled and shook his head.

“Yeah? Not just saying that because you had a crush on me way back when?” The distance was gone from his expression as he focused on Oswald, a bit of teasing to his voice. Oswald drew his lower lip into his mouth and worried at it for a moment as he thought over Jim's statement. Being timid and secretive about his feelings had given him nothing but grief before. What was the point in hiding things now, when Jim could pick up on things so easily?

“ _Had_? It never went away, James.” Oswald told him. There was something strangely freeing about simply admitting it. He had already suffered through the worst case scenario when it came to rejection, so he had no fear of Jim's reaction. Oswald watched his expression shift from playful to something across between curious and surprised, head tilting slightly as he examined the smaller man's face. If this had taken place even earlier that year, Oswald would be bracing himself to be thrown off the detective's lap, but now, with a clarity born of a love harshly rebuked, he simply waited.

“I thought you were in love with Ed.” Jim stated.

“I thought I was as well. But part of me thinks I may have been after him for what he represented to me... And because I knew I had no chance of making you mine.” Oswald admitted. Once again he watched the slight twitching of Jim's face; the way he licked his lips as he contemplated Oswald's words, the way his brows furrowed very slightly before relaxing.

“That might have been true a year ago. When I was with Lee.” Jim said.

“Or when you were with the reporter, or with Barbara... You have a history of having a certain type, all of whom tend to be beautiful women. I don't recall you ever expressing an interest in men...” Oswald observed, voice even.

“Mostly because I've been in serious, monogamous relationships. I don't really discriminate with who I'm with, you know?” He remarked.

“... I don't know. Please enlighten me.” Oswald said, eyes going wide. Exhilarating terror mixed with hope and disbelief began to thrum in his chest at what was being implied.

“Just because I usually end up with women doesn't mean I write anyone off. I expected you of all people to be a bit more open-minded about that!” Jim fake-chided Oswald, grinning.

“Are you messing with me? I don't like being teased.” Oswald stared at him, worrisome, heart pounding in his thin chest.

“I'm not. I swear. I date people based on who they are and what they mean to me, nothing else.”

“James, don't toy with my emotions. This is a serious conversation, don't tease.” Oswald pushed lightly at Jim's chest, trying not to jump to any conclusions just yet. Jim then wrapped his arms around Oswald's waist, shaking his head.

“I'm not teasing, Oswald. I'm being completely serious. These past few weeks, having you here... I've learned a lot about you. Stuff I never woulda guessed. We're more alike then I ever would have known otherwise, and honestly, I've been looking forward to getting home every day to spend time with you. I used to just... push you away all the time because I think even back then I felt something, but didn't want to think about it because of where I was at in life. But I can't deny anymore that I care about you. We've both lost too much.”

“So what does this mean, then?” Oswald asked. He needed to clarify, to be careful and think before acting.

“It means that I care about you, Oswald... that... I think we should give this a shot. We don't got much to lose, right? Why not?” Jim actually seemed nervous as he spoke, thumbs stroking Oswald's back.

“Do you mean that... you want to try being with me?” Oswald could barely believe it, saying it out loud in order to make it seem and feel more real.

“I do. I don't know how it's going to work in public, or what it'll mean in terms of our jobs, but I --” Jim started to worry aloud, but found himself abruptly cut off by Oswald's lips on his.

Arms thrown over his shoulders, Oswald kissed him, eyes slipping shut, bodies pressed together chest to chest. He didn't want to hear any more worries, any more paranoia about what the future held. All that Oswald wanted was Jim; his lips, his arms around him, his adoration and attention. At that moment, nothing else mattered. The admission of caring was a healing balm wrapping his weary soul in the warmth it had been seeking tirelessly to replace since the loss of his mother. The knowledge that there was something more between them now was remarkable, almost inconceivable before those last few weeks.

It was the blooming of something beautiful, something precious that they both needed.

 

 

"So, was that a yes?" Jim muttered when Oswald finally pulled back.

All Oswald could do was laugh, and kiss him again, intent on leaving them both breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all for this one, folks. I'm super happy you all enjoyed it, and I am eternally grateful for all of your amazing comments. I hope this ending measured up to the other chapters. There is a chance I'll make a follow up to this if I see there's an interest! 
> 
> Thank you for reading. <3 <3 <3


End file.
